Illumination
by Smidy
Summary: Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy concluded, was an astonishingly beautiful woman, yet, at the current time, he would sacrifice his name, lodgings and extensive fortune if he were granted the reprieve of never gracing her presence again.


_AN: Rightio. Just a thing I had to write for Year 11 Lit. Hope it's ok :)_

* * *

In the summer of the year 1763, Mr. and Mrs Charles Darcy of the illustrious Pemberly Estate were delighted to bear a son.

Fatigued from her laborious suffering, Lady Anne could but only watch as her husband enthusiastically rounded on the startled Mr. Evans – the only attending physician outside of Lambton – and snatched the new babe up and into his arms. Such happiness and joy had never been seen before in the eyes of a man, and proudly he turned, captured the attention of the flittering ladies in waiting and pronounced "'Tis my son! Just look on how radiant and noble he is!"

They promptly curtseyed and bowed and paid all the necessary civilities that one usually relates to the birth of a master's child. "Look how he bears such a healthy shine!" said one. "He is but of this world for a fleeting moment and already his eyes tell tales of wisdom and courage!" said another. And thus it continued until, after a brief deliberation and a chorus of hearty agreeances, they all proclaimed the babe to be the most wonderful that any could ever had laid eyes on, or indeed, could ever have existed. Content, Mr. Charles Darcy returned his enraptured attention to his child.

"Fitzwilliam, my son," said he, "you are destined to be among the richest and most revered men in all of London and its surrounding counties. Pray, be all that I wish and do not disappoint, for grievously sad I should be if it were so."

From that moment, the young Mr. Darcy flourished. His mother, Lady Anne Darcy, could often be found regaling smitten groups of high society ladies with the everyday nuances of Fitzwilliam's behaviour – from his peaceful and regimented sleeping habits to the hours upon hours of utter enjoyment that his sweet temper and innocent wonder could evoke.

"Just a week prior to our conversation presently," she expressively recalled one evening whilst residing at their lavish London town house, "Mr. Darcy and I were alighting into our phaeton – one of our new acquisitions, by the by, rather impressive and including room for more that half a dozen passengers – and suddenly, we both came to the realisation that Fitzwilliam was not among our party.

Distressed, we began searching, and employed all the servants to do so as well, but no matter where we ventured, he was not found." She paused here to allow time for the ladies present to fret adequately and bemoan her frightful experience.

"Then," she started grandly once more, "Mrs. Hollingsworth, our downstairs maid cried, "Master! Mistress! He is here! But do come quietly. Quite extraordinary!" Naturally, we were vexed to learn of the present state of our beloved son, and thus, we were inclined to dishonour Mrs. Hollingsworth's pleadings and fly around the corner. There, and 'twas quite extraordinary indeed, was darling Fitzwilliam, blissfully regarding a butterfly, marvelling at the patterns in its frail wings, I'll assume, completely ignorant of the world and, indeed, of the fuss he had so recently caused."

The ladies, at this conclusion sighed femininely, yet sincerely in relief and, in unison, turned and smiled sweetly at the quiet boy sitting reservedly next to his mother. Lady Anne, in turn, faced her child, visage smiling, yet eyes cold. She had long mastered the art of constructing charming anecdotes about her stubborn, shuttered child. For almost as soon as he had left her a mere 5 years previous, she had grown irritated by him and, most pressingly, had also secretly denounced the notion of motherhood. In all truth, when she had arrived by Fitzwilliam's side and recognised his meaningless and tedious leisure, she had promptly taken him by the hand and scolded him for his disobedience for the entire passage of time until they were safely in their carriage.

She had not noticed the insect lift its papery wings and drift away.

Fitzwilliam had however, in stunning, condemning detail.

* * *

In the winter of Fitzwilliam's twelfth year, a most welcome addition to all things joyful and adventurous arrived at the Estate. Its name was George Wickham, an amiable and slightly boisterous youth a mere two years Fitzwilliam's junior, and a vivacious and uniformly charming playmate. The two boys wasted no time in expressing their delight in one another and soon had manufactured a close, easy companionship, the majority of which they whiled away orchestrating relatively harmless yet unaccountably entertaining bouts of tomfoolery and frequent sojourns into the kitchens to acquire sweets and cakes from the ever – accommodating cooks and servants.

George sufficiently distracted Fitzwilliam from his mother's coldness and disinterest and he was quite sure that he had never before encountered such an agreeable, engaging personality and thus, was quite entranced by his newfound friend, as was, he soon found, his father, Mr. Charles Darcy. Though Fitzwilliam was exhibiting direct signs of developing into an exceptional hunter, was already deemed inexcusably handsome by the ladies of his mother's acquaintance and had mastered a common sense and overall intellect of outstanding proportions, he was noticeably wanting of charm and affability, two traits that his father valued above all others. George Wickham however, was almost excessively abundant in his cordiality and amicability and consequently, secured the attentions and interest of the jovial master of Pemberly, often, even above that of the Estate's natural heir.

On one such occasion, early in the morning, Mr. Charles Darcy proclaimed it to be a splendid day for exploration and, as he had no prior, pressing commitments, or, at least none of which that wouldn't sustain his light-hearted procrastination, roused the two boys from their sleeping chambers and steered them, yawning and tousled haired, toward the direction of the Darcy's prominent stables. Livened by his vibrant mood, Fitzwilliam and George soon ceased their drowsy exclamations of confusion, eyes transfixing upon the excitable man before them.

"Now my young charges!" he gestured excellently into the morning's frigid air. "Today, we shall rid ourselves of our insipid, daily personalities and characters and fashion ourselves new determination and bravery and doggedness, for before the sun makes his burning path to his peak, we shall be galloping through our extensive grounds, beholding unknown treasures and trekking unfamiliar paths. Adventure calls us! Do you not hear it? Do you not _feel_ it?"

Anticipation swathed the boys and replaced the morning's dew, hanging heavy and threatening over all that was present, being only slightly affected when Mr. Darcy returned with the horrible remembrance that due to the majority of their steeds being all extended to families who had current, dire use of them, only one remained.

"Never fear," said he, "we shall but have to take turns. Quick, George, up with me, you shall be the first to experience our enthralling quest. You are, by some extent, our guest and tis only just and courteous that those relying on our hospitality receive the full extent of its benefits. Is that not so, Fitzwilliam?" Fitzwilliam replied that indeed, it was so and looked away, grappling with the impolite tide of petulance and jealousy that maliciously _dared_ him to dissent.

And so, they left. Fitzwilliam lifted his chin and leant casually against the stable door, quashing his irritation and allowing peace to wash over him. His father was a man of the highest calibre, they would return within the hour, he was certain.

The sun was settled on what could be supposed as a quarter of its journey across the sky at the exact moment that Mr. Darcy and George's figures had finally fled from Fitzwilliam's gaze. When it reached the tempest of its ascent Fitzwilliam still resolutely awaited the re-emergence of their forms. When it had slipped a few more degrees on its newly commenced descent, his heart mimicked its movements.

Finally, when the transient switch of light to dark was near on approaching, the resounding echoes of Mr. Darcy's deep guffaws and of George's animated chatter signalled their shadowy appearance, visages and picturesque surroundings dipped in the blood of the dying sun. On advancing, they proceeded directly up the front steps, were greeted gloriously by the house maid at the door and begged to divulge the entertaining notion that had caused them to laugh and smile so genuinely for the entire, lengthy stretch to the main house. Fitzwilliam stood, half obscured by the shadows as George delighted the kindly woman with the tale, Mr. Darcy completely oblivious to his absence and indeed, anything that did not regard the charming lad's captivating sentences.

Thus, he did not notice the traitorous tear that snaked its way down his son's cheek before dropping forlornly into the dust.

Fitzwilliam did, however, in stunning, condemning detail.

* * *

It was from this moment on, that Fitzwilliam began to harbour a certain dislike for George and, as infuriating as every movement and observation made by George – or Wickham as he had taken to calling him now – was, still more infuriating was this feeling's obvious and unshakable roots in jealousy, an origin that Fitzwilliam's considerable pride positively despised. Before long, however, this was assuaged, though not in any manner that Fitzwilliam's gentlemanly disposition advocated. It seemed that as both boys transfigured into men and as each gathered years unto their experience and existence, Wickham became increasingly furtive and dishonest and his ability to commandeer conversation and the good opinions of all, increasingly relevant and necessary.

At the event of Mr. Charles Darcy's death - Lady Anne had preceded her husband several years previous - Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, not yet 26, paid his respects in the solemn, polite and reserved mannerisms of which his disappointing childhood had fostered. He gazed at the tombstone and allowed his mourning to be swept away with the wind, much to the distaste of the attending parishioners, all who thought that Mr. George Wickham's open grieving, downcast eyes and sobering, genuine demeanour was entirely more suitable for the occasion. "Poor dear," the ladies crooned, glancing sympathetically at the deceased's favourite 'son', then murmuring excitedly when he approached Georgiana Darcy, the esteemed daughter of the late Mr. Darcy, and ensured her comfort to the greatest extent the situation and all his worldly power would allow. Fitzwilliam had, of course, already been by, and, confident of her relative happiness, had contented himself with observing from afar, acutely aware of the danger of his heartfelt actions being witnessed and misconstrued as an attempt to win favour with the masses.

And so, Fitzwilliam became 'Mr. Darcy', lord of the Pemberly Estate and guardian of a considerable fortune, a fact that burdened rather than liberated him. Wickham, however, sought to extract great gains from this position and, not a month after Mr. Charles Darcy had commenced his final rest, did he approach his old playmate and perennial rival, extolling lies and fabrications of deals, inheritances and potential career inclinations. It was only Darcy's express wish to honour his father and of his partiality to disregard prejudices in case of error that influenced him into acquiescing to Wickham's deceitful dalliances, believing to be funding expeditions into the religious sector and, alternatively, the armed forces, when, in all truth, Wickham was irresponsibly frittering his riches away on all things immoral and, eventually, hesitantly toeing the edge of the great abyss known as 'poverty'. In order to maintain his existence in the style to which he had become accustomed, a new plan was imperative.

Thus began his designs on Miss Darcy.

He doted on her, spoke animatedly with her and listened intently on whatever mundane subject upon which she thought it prudent to lavish her attention. He was so perfect and sincere that it was but a matter of weeks until she considered herself very seriously in love with him. Her age, a mere 15, was nothing when compared to the absolute truthful quality of their love, thought she. In all her wildest dreams, Georgiana had really never envisaged that she, who wrongly considered herself quite extraordinarily plain, would have been able to entrance a man of such an admirable personality and of such unaccountably pleasing looks. If there were to be a heaven, she decided, than Wickham's company must be it.

Mr. Darcy, of course, who was uncommonly attached to his sister, noticed with gravity the nature of the goings on and, as the passions and bravado of the two lovers reached its paramount, he intervened. They had been planning to escape to Scotland, an elopement of the most serious manner, intended, though unknown to his sister, to sully the reputation of the Darcy Estate and to award Wickham a significant portion of the subsequent fortune, thus supporting him for the entirety of his mortal existence and successfully making obsolete any requirement for his contribution in the workforce.

Darcy was furious, Wickham, frustrated and Georgiana, heartbroken. She was not dull, nor lacking of sufficient common sense, so, when all was explained to her that night after supper, she accepted the reality in favour of the considerably more attractive alternative. Then, she cried. Mr. Darcy surmised that he did not pass a fretful night of the following two months without bearing witness to his beloved sister weeping violently until overcome with exhaustion, unable to eat properly, nor maintain a healthy demeanour. Then, the pain of betrayal began to dwindle and the strength of happier memories was, on some fronts, victorious. They had laughed about the most silliest things she remembered, had enjoyed the most stimulating and enthralling conversation and he had often told her that he admired her so greatly that it was a toll on his heart, as he lived, said he, in the ever-threatening fear that she may change, thus destroying the perfection that had so manifested itself in her being. Abruptly, she would scold herself for being fanciful and quickly be reminded of his spiteful and duplicitous designs and vow never to forget.

So young though, as she was, and so long without prospective suitors and sufficient attention, that this became increasingly difficult and undesirous to perform. And thus, she never noticed the slightly varied expression she exhibited whenever addressing Darcy, the dimmed love in her eyes with the minutest traces of blame coursing through them.

It was realised by Darcy, however, in stunning, condemning detail.

* * *

Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy concluded, was an astonishingly beautiful woman, yet, at the current time, he would sacrifice his name, lodgings and extensive fortune if he were granted the reprieve of never gracing her presence again. He supposed it was love, what he felt for her, for it was unfamiliar and frightening and thus, he was incapable of classing it as anything else. He was unaware of its absolute capabilities, having never truly had the chance to examine it prior to the present day, but he reasoned, whatever was powerful enough to have him inclined to ignore the inferiority of her connections, the abhorrent behaviour of her relations and the numerous flaws in her own personal countenance would most definitely humble the ludicrous tales of love's infinite potency that he was privy to.

He voiced his concerns, arrogantly continuing with his initial method of proposal, and braced, fully intent on weathering the storm of passion and acidity that would certainly follow. Instead, she returned with a question of her own. Providing sufficient background to her inquiry, she demanded his explanation of his dealings with the relationship of his old friend Mr. Bingley and her sister Jane. Her eyes flashed as she spoke with obvious pain at her sister's suffering, her entire being betraying her sadness and adversity, her empathy and, her unconditional love. He was transfixed with wonder.

She rounded on him "…Your manners [have] impress[ed] me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others…[and] have built so immovable a dislike; [that] I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

In such a heated quarrel had she never been in her life and such little pleasure had she ever extracted from a social altercation that she was not conscious of the genuine concern and enduring compassion that enveloped her features when defending her sister's plight.

Nor had she noticed the subsequent elevated rate of Mr. Darcy's heart, or the engulfing feeling of warmth that shrouded him from head to foot.

Mr. Darcy did, however, in stunning, _illuminating_ detail.


End file.
